


A Familiar Face

by OccasionalAvenger



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, F/M, Kinda, or maybe Nat is just nice idk, romanogers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7130033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionalAvenger/pseuds/OccasionalAvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve finds footing in the 21st century in an unexpected place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Familiar Face

It’s little things that reconnect Steve with this new world. It’s so easy to get overwhelmed—and he did, in those early days—that he has to find things that make him feel some semblance of normalcy. Just sitting in the break room at SHIELD every morning swamps him with information; names, brands, movie quotes, thrown about so casually in conversation that even his serum-enhanced memory has trouble taking note of them for later research.

Sports, of all things, are a strong link to his old life. The Redskins, DC’s football team, are topic of conversation around SHIELD nearly every day. Steve decides it’s an incremental vacation, the agents’ way of distracting themselves from the fact that they spent their weeks throwing lead in six different time zones. 

He’s still working on that.

“Jesus Christ, man, get Shanahan the fuck off my team. Piggy-backed on Elway for a couple ‘a Super Bowls…bastard can’t coach for shit.”

“It’s RG, I’m telling you. He’s not healthy. Came off that ACL too early—we can’t expect him to be any good. We just need to be patient.”

“I’ve been patient for twenty fucking years! I’m changing teams next year, I swear.”  


“I’ll fucking kill you.”

It's all very amusing. 

Steve listens raptly to the conversation every morning, even though football has never been his sport. He remembers the Redskins, though, and it’s oddly like finding a familiar face in a crowd. Bucky, a Giants fan, loathed them, back in the day. The Redskins weren’t exactly aces back then either. Apparently they haven’t changed in 70 years. It’s strangely comforting. 

“Used to be baseball,” Steve says to Natasha Romanov one morning. His weekly attempt to make conversation. They’re drinking coffee at 4:00 am in the break room and listening to a group of young field agents arguing about whether or not the Redskins can win more than four games. One of them has a broken wrist sheathed in a cast. Romanov gives him a questioning look and he elaborates. “We used to talk about baseball. Not football.”

“It’s not baseball season,” Romanov says, swishing the coffee around in her mug. She drinks it with cream and two sugars, but there’s no reason for him to know that. 

“I know. But we talked about it all the time. Played in the schoolyard and everything.” Steve wants to take the words back as soon as he says them. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the vague contempt in Romanov’s face. He’s managed so far to keep himself from telling old man stories around her; it suits both of them because it’s painful for him, and he’s sure Romanov couldn’t care less. Especially, Steve thinks, not about America’s poor change of taste in sports

The silence has just begun to throb in their ears when she surprises him. “Clint will talk about baseball with you.” There’s a strain of faint dislike in her tone. Steve is pretty sure it’s directed at baseball, not Clint.

“Not a baseball person, then?”

“Not a sports person. It’s pointless.” Romanoff gets up and rinses her empty mug in the sink, carefully dumping the dirty water out and placing the mug on the drying rack. She grabs her jacket from off the back of her chair and leaves him without so much as a goodbye. 

Pointless? Steve ponders it. Some of his best memories are of him and Bucky at Dodgers games when they were kids. But that was a different time. Things were simpler then. Steve certainly hasn’t watched baseball—or any sport, for that matter—since he got out of the ice. Maybe sports have gone the way of so many other things in the world—bland and soulless. 

The rowdy group of young agents has gone, leaving Steve alone in the break room with an empty coffee mug. He wants to refill it, but a battered paper sign above the pot warns that Agent Morse will find and kill him if he takes more than his share of coffee. 

He wishes Romanov hadn’t left. 

* * * * * *

“Hey, Cap! Wait up a minute.” The voice attached to the words is Clint Barton’s, echoing in the cavernous SHIELD parking garage.

Steve turns to see Barton trotting towards him, waving his hands urgently. His gait is a bit awkward, and Steve wonders at the source of the archer’s latest injury—the guy is constantly getting himself hurt. He kills the engine of his motorcycle and nods at Barton as he stops, panting, in front of Steve. 

“Barton. What’s wrong?”

“Ah, you can call me Clint. And nothing’s wrong. But, uh…a few of us are gonna go out to watch the ‘Skins game at a bar this Sunday. You in?”

Steve shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “I appreciate the offer, Clint. Really. But I can’t do that.”

Clint doesn’t look deterred. “C’mon, buddy. Your schedule can’t be that busy. What’ve the psychs got you doin’ now, watching The Godfather? Reading memoirs?”

“It’s not that I’m busy, I just…” Steve’s voice trails off. If he’s being honest with himself, the thought of leaving his house for something so trivial even as watching a football game is daunting. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s cut himself off from the world these past few months. The New York incident was…New York was horrifying, and that was on top of Steve waking up 70 years after he died in every way that counted.

He flounders for way to tell Clint he can’t bring himself to leave his house that doesn’t make him sound like a recluse, and as he does so his gaze lands on a sleek black sports car parked a few spots over from his bike. 

Natasha Romanov is sitting in the front seat, all red hair and hard edges. She’s blatantly watching him, making no attempt to look away when Steve catches her eye. She raises an eyebrow expectantly. Steve looks back at Clint, making the connection. Romanov put him up to this. 

Maybe, says a small voice in the back of Steve’s mind, she’ll be there. Maybe you’ll make a friend. The idea was tantalizing. Not being alone. 

He steels himself. “Okay. Where should I meet you? Who’s going?”

Clint looks genuinely delighted. “Awesome. I’ll text you all that shi—stuff later. I got your number from the files...ah, don’t look at me like that.”

“Looking forward to it,” Steve says, grinning in spite of himself. He watches as Clint jogs over to the black sports car and slides into the passenger seat. Romanov smirks and revs the engine. Steve gets on his motorcycle and follows them out of the parking lot, breathing in acrid exhaust and greasy pavement. It’s Wednesday, meaning he has four days until the game. Small though it may be, Steve realizes, he finally has something look forward to.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so, I had to shove my love of sports into a fic somewhere. Here it is. Clint Barton would probably be stuck with shitty teams anyway, so it fits.


End file.
